


Let Me

by Chioces



Category: The King (2019)
Genre: M/M, halstaff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chioces/pseuds/Chioces
Summary: A quiet farewell.
Relationships: Sir John Falstaff/Henry V of England, Sir John Falstaff/Prince Hal (Shakespeare)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	Let Me

“Give me your dreams. I wish to carry them onto the field with me tomorrow.”

“And yours? Will you give me yours?”

“We shall be the keepers of each others dreams, and so survive death itself, in order to carry them pulsing, out into the dawn.”

Such an odd amalgamation: so frail and thin a body given so unbearable a weight.

“Wait. You have to wait. No matter what you see out there.”

“I cannot stand the thought of you dying.”

“A sentimental injustice, no? All men carry their heads, so they may be severed from their bodies, and they cannot wallow in the discontent, or in the wish for preservation.”

“And you? Do you wallow in discontent? Do you wish for preservation?”

“Only for yours, my King.”

“That wish too, may prove itself wistful.”

“Yes.”

“Shall we arrange a place for us to meet in heaven then?”

“Oh, by all means, I’ll be waiting for you on the morrow, at the corner of the great white chapel, just past the second soggy cloud.”

“You’re soggy, you great brute.”

“I am.” A sigh, then, “I am.”

The candle light is yellow in the darkness of the tent. The bedding old, the pillows stained by time.

“And here we are now, run out of time.”

“You always knew, you always knew you’d end up marching out to your death, dragging me behind you. With no choice but to protect your silly head. Your silly dreams, my King.”

“I cannot stand the thought of you dying, even a moment ahead of me. How will I carry all this… how will I carry all this _life_ without you?”

“A king is nothing more than a servant. Your life belongs to your land. And mine belongs to you so you may survive to give yours to your land, and so it goes. I will serve, and you will serve, and if God is on our side—if we are on God’s side, we will perhaps sever on together. Perhaps we’ll live on to watch your country struggle under your heavy hand.” 

Pearls of laughter thread the air. 

“Is there no choice but war?”

“You are the king, all war is your choice.”

“I am Aminon, bringer of death. I shall lead the men right into hell. And I ask of them to do it willingly.”

“They enter the gates of hell to block them, so that their wives and children would not need to follow.”

“Then let my body be the largest. Let it be large enough and wide enough so no man will ever need pass through them.”

“Ah, don’t do that, can’t block them gates forever, we all wish for a reprieve, in the end.”

“This is not what I wanted.”

“This is not what you wanted, but it is what you chose.”

“It’s not what I dreamed.”

“Kings do not get to dream. Kings are the hands of the dreams of the people.”

“Then for tonight, let me no longer be king.”

“So that you can tell me your dreams?”

“So that you can tell me yours, and I can carry them into battle with me tomorrow, and defend them with my breast along with the entire kingdom’s.”

“I cannot stand the thought.”

“Of me dying?”

“And that too.”

“I’m sorry. I want—”

“No more wanting. Sleep. Tomorrow we meet God, you must be fresh faced.”

A laugh, and shuffling, then a breath. The yellow flairs and dies. The army sleeps. Nobody cries. 

No use weeping over a broken washtub.


End file.
